


Bound

by annundriel



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-19 02:09:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4728791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annundriel/pseuds/annundriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Bull drowns out the rest when Dorian is with him, the sound and the silence fade until there is only the two of them, fingers clutching, mouths clinging.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bound

Dorian sits in the corner of the Herald's Rest, shoulders against the wall. He shouldn’t be here; his skin feels too small, too big, the world too bright and the sounds too much. He wants to get up and pace, but forces himself still save for the jogging of his knee, the drumming of his fingertips on the wood table before him. Leaving would be wise, and the privacy of his room beckons him though he knows the quiet will be as loud as the crowd in the tavern. What he needs is action, what he needs is—

The Iron Bull catches his eye from across the room. He stands at least a head above anyone else, and when their gazes lock, Dorian knows the Bull understands. He had a feeling he would.

Reaching for his flagon, Dorian drains what's left of the beer he claims to dislike but secretly likes best. His eyes don't leave the Bull's, and when he sets the flagon back on the table and rises, when he turns to leave, he knows the Bull is watching him.

It only takes a moment for him to follow, the light from the tavern's open door eclipsed briefly by the Bull's wide shoulders. Dorian shivers, tells himself it is the cool mountain air but knows well it is the remembrance of that chest beneath his palms, the Bull rising into his touch. This is what he needs now, who he needs. The Bull drowns out the rest when Dorian is with him, the sound and the silence fade until there is only the two of them, fingers clutching, mouths clinging. Breathes coming faster and faster until there is nothing left in the world save for the two of them.

A tip of the head, a glance of acknowledgement, and Dorian turns and leads him to his room where he knows there is already a fire lit, ready and waiting for him. It is not their usual destination, but tonight Dorian needs his own four walls, the new familiarity of his bed. In the chest at the end, he has folded a set of scarves he bought the last time they were in Orlais. They shimmered like water in his hand, silver and blue, and he'd smiled to himself as he paid for them, the clerk asking about gifts while Dorian imagined the Bull's thick fingers knotting and unknotting each one around his wrists and ankles.

He had not blushed then, and he does not blush now though he can feel warmth in his cheeks, the fire burning in his belly banked high as he bends over the open chest at the foot of his bed. The scarves he forgoes for now; it is not their bright softness he desires. No, save that for later when he doesn’t feel he is fraying at the edges. This is the time for something different.

The rope is dark as blood in his hand when he turns to the Bull. It had been the color that had caught his eye at first, rich as wine in the flickering light that bathed the merchant's wares. He'd reached for it then, his fingers itching to touch, and found himself shivering at the feel of the coils against his palm as he laid his hand down.

He holds the lines of rope out to the Bull now, and the Bull looks at him in that way he has, the one that makes Dorian feel exposed and raw and known. His fingers brush Dorian's when he takes the rope, and in Dorian's chest his heart races.

"Please," he says.

The Bull looks at him, measuring. "You remember our—"

"Yes," he says. He remembers the word the Bull gave him the first time, Bull's insistence he repeat the two syllables in case he needed them later. He hadn't, but _katoh_ sits in the back of his mind, ready for use if he needs it, though he doesn't imagine he will, not with Bull.

A nod, and then the Bull steps closer, crowding into Dorian's space. Dorian takes a step back, and the Bull follows him. Step for step, they move to the bed; it's a dance they're still learning, and they get better at it day by day. They move, and Dorian's breath quickens, his heart a wild thing in his chest. He feels about to fly apart, but that's why they're here. That's why they're here.

Rope laid aside, the Bull undresses him. Each movement is deliberate, and Dorian appreciates the ceremony of it, though he has to bite his lip to keep from asking the Bull to hurry. Instead, he helps with the smaller buckles and ties, arms overlapping the Bull's, hands brushing. Each piece of clothing that disappears feels like a weight lifted until Dorian is naked and wanting, nothing but himself on display.

When the Bull instructs him to—voice as steady and strong as the Bull himself—Dorian kneels on the bed. He kneels, and he waits, his fingers curling into his palms where they rest on his wide-spread thighs.

"Who are you going to fight?" the Bull asks, a rope trailing from his hand. Dorian blinks and opens his mouth to ask for clarification, stops when the back of one of Bull's fingers traces the back of his fist. "There's no one here but you and me."

Eyes slipping shut, Dorian shivers, focuses on straightening each finger until he can feel the ten points of them on his thighs. _You and me_ , he thinks, _and no one else in the world_.

The Bull nods, and then his hands are on Dorian, wide and sure, anchoring him in the dim light. He touches Dorian, his fingers brushing over skin as Dorian's would over parchment, and really they're not that different, are they? The two of them scholars in their own right, one of magic and history, the other of people and feeling. 

The first loop of rope startles him, its fibers still slightly cool where the Bull's hand did not grip. Against his thighs, Dorian's fingers dig in momentarily before the Bull lifts one and then the other, moving and manipulating Dorian to his liking. Anyone else, and Dorian would balk. Anyone else, and Dorian would still be nothing more than that mage from Tevinter, tolerated but not trusted, desired but not—

He looks up at the Bull, and the Bull looks back. He looks and he sees and that's all Dorian has ever wanted, deep in his bones. The Bull's hand—his entire hand; Dorian will never ceased to be amazed by this—cups his shoulder, holding him steady. Waiting for Dorian. He breathes again and again. When he is ready, he nods, and the Bull nods back.

They've done this twice before. The first time, Dorian doesn't remember who broached the subject. Bull, he thinks. He's good at that, at reading Dorian. Has probably known Dorian better than Dorian knows himself at times. And that's...That was terrifying, but now Dorian closes his eyes and focuses on the feel of the Bull's fingers—soft and rough both—and the way his breath ghosts over him. He can hear the crackle of the fire in the grate, the distant sounds of revelry far below in the courtyard. The coverlet of his bed is plush beneath him, and when he opens his eyes it’s to the Bull gazing down, mouth tender for all of its seriousness.

He would speak if he could, but his throat is as tight as the ropes the Bull is tying around him, and so he says nothing. Instead, he watches the Bull's face, wonders at the scars and the stories each have to tell, the as yet unknown behind the patch. He watches the Bull's hands on the rope and he breathes deep as each loop and line binds him, defining him here in his own room, in his own skin. The ropes tighten, and his body swells, heart thudding, cock hard. The Bull ties knots against him, threading the end of each rope under and over and through, careful and steady and certain, so certain.

Dorian draws his breath deep, chest expanding, and feels the bindings constrict. He settles against the bed, leans into the Bull's hands, into the warmth of him. Looks at the Bull and opens his mouth, groans when the Bull brushes a thumb against his bottom lip, the points of his other fingers hot against Dorian's jaw. Above him, the Bull draws in a breath that shakes before his fingers move southwards to the red rope he’s bound Dorian with, ley lines leading him ever onward until his hand is on Dorian's cock.

Head falling back, Dorian lifts into his touch, everything focusing finally—finally—to the knots against his skin, the stretches of rope holding him in, the Bull's hand large and hot and just the right kind of encompassing around him. _This_ is what Dorian needed, what he wanted. This and nothing else. Let the world end around them then—Dorian's already has once—and let a new one rise from the ashes. Let it end and begin between these four walls, these four posts. Between the width of the Bull's palm and the curl of his fingers. Between one breath and the next until...until...

The pillow is cool against his neck when Dorian comes to, firelight flickering through the bed curtains at the end of the bed. He shifts, blinking at the Bull where he sits next to him rubbing Dorian's wrists and forearms. He is still dressed, though he's lost the harness, and Dorian wants to move his fingers and reach for him, wants to pull him close and curl against his sturdy side.

He flexes his fingers, and the Bull looks down at him, face gone soft with something Dorian can't quite read. The fingers on his wrist still and twist, tickling his palm before twining with his own.

"Better, kadan?" the Bull asks, and Dorian doesn't recognize the word and he doesn't ask. He doesn't need to. Deep within his bones, he knows.

Dorian nods, and swallows. Holds on to the Bull. Says, only, "Yes."


End file.
